


Paint Strokes in the Shape of You

by TinyDemonWriter



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Rich Dream, Starving Artist George, for real i think this is the only thing i've written that doesn't have angst, just pure fluff guys, uuuh that's all i can think of rn lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyDemonWriter/pseuds/TinyDemonWriter
Summary: George is a starving college student who's majored in starving for the rest of his life. That is to say, he's an art major. Despite this, he's managed to find somewhat steady income in the form of Dream, a friend he met back in college who asks for frequent commissions.A friend he happens to have something of a crush on.So, when Dream asks him to come over to his house to paint something, well, how was George supposed to say anything other than yes?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 258





	Paint Strokes in the Shape of You

The reason why people go to college is to get a degree so they can make actual money. They tend to go into business or psychology. Maybe english if they feel like being semi poor for the rest of their lives. Sometimes it’s out of enjoyment for their subject, sometimes it’s because they were pressured into it. Sometimes, it’s even because it was just something to do to put off having to be out in the world with a job that they hoped would keep them off the streets.

Whatever their reason, it’s generally agreed upon that only the crazy ones go to an art college because it’s extremely expensive, really hard as art is subjective and professors don’t always get what you’re going for, and, oh yeah, it really doesn’t pay well until you get really, really lucky.

All of this to say that it is two in the morning and George is groaning into his cup noodles and really cursing all the life choices that lead him here.

He adores painting, really he does. It’s calming and it’s a way for him to express the emotions he sometimes struggles with in his day to day life.

At the same time if one more professor tells him to paint a boring fucking landscape he’s going to cry and rip the easel to shreds.

“Last year, come on, just one more year,” he mumbles into his cup noodles, staring forlornly at the thing. It, predictably, does not respond, and he sighs. It doesn’t help that this is his last cup and he’s still nowhere near full.

He’s really cursing his life choices. College in America is already expensive. Add in that he’s an international student and living off of commissions and you have the recipe for a really poor person. Or the recipe for cup noodles, either one.

He really needs to eat something other than these things, it’s starting to feel like less of a real thing and more of a figment of his starving artist imagination.

George pushes the empty container away from him and goes back to the stupid landscape in front of him. He thought the life of stills of reality was far behind him, that it was a freshman year thing, but alas. Here he is, painting a lakehouse and darkly wondering if he could get away with choking his professor with the paintbrush in his hand.

“‘We have to go back to our roots,’” he mocks. “‘We have to touch up on our techniques!’ Yeah, whatever, painting something that already exists, oh so hard.” He rolls his eyes over to the picture he’s looking at for reference. 

It doesn’t help that he’s colorblind. He does his best to match the colors he sees, picking apart the yellow hues he can see, but his professor’s get frustrated sometimes, when he doesn’t paint it right. He’s convinced this professor in particular hates him, as there is a lot of what he knows to be green in this picture.

At least there’s the calming blue of the lake, there to keep him from completely losing it and burning his easel.

Taking a deep breath, George stops complaining, and gets back to painting. Despite the fact that he’s not fond of what he’s doing, he’s a perfectionist to the core. He takes care to carefully highlight the water, using a mix of blues, blacks, and whites to capture the reflection of the sun and does his best with the grass. It’s meticulous, methodical, and so very drab.

George flicks his eyes over to his reference picture every now and then, ensuring that he’s capturing every detail as perfectly as he can. The constant checking is the only reason why he sees his phone light up with a message. He gets a brief glance at the contact name, _Dream Daddy_ , and drops his paintbrush in his excitement to have some sort of distraction, any sort of distraction, from the thing he’s painting.

Dream was someone he knew vaguely. They had one of their core classes together last year, a computer class that George had been putting off since freshman year. He wanted to take an easy class in his last years, so he had saved it. Dream, however, wanted to learn coding out of spite so had taken it his very first semester. 

They had worked together a few times and traded numbers just in case.

Last year, Dream had wanted to do something special for a friend. He had texted George out of the blue asking for a commission of a panda in any style, and then offered to pay twice George’s asking price.

Of course George said yes, how could he not?

Now, he’s done a few commissions for Dream, some strange (asking to draw his cat as a person was, really weird if George was being honest, but apparently it was supposed to piss off the same person the panda was for? George has learned not to ask questions) and some sweet, but all for way more than George usually charges and well-

Cup noodles get really gross after a while and Dream’s money let’s him buy real food every once in a while.

_hey just wanted to know if u could do another comm for me?_

He types quickly, checking for spelling mistakes, and hits send.

_sure what were you thinking?_

He waits for the response, hoping it’s quick. Anything to distract him. The possibility of money is also nice, but Dream, he’s found, makes a wonderful distraction. 

He’s unbearably kind, his generous commission prices seeing to that. Not to mention, funny, in a weird not actually funny but his laugh is cute kind of way. Even his contact name was a joke from Dream that George grew fond of and saved to annoy Dream.

Also he’s hot as hell, but the man already has an ego, no need to feed into it.

George feels his shoulders drop in relief as he sees the dots indicating that Dream is responding, and feels a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

_a portrait of sorts?_

_sure lol when and where and how big_

_its easier to show u rather than tell u_

With that text is an address that leads to a neighborhood not too far from where George lives and his heart skips a beat. He ignores it and glances at the time. Nearly four am. He’s willing to shove all the blame of his traitorous heart on the time.

_i can be there later today? like two?_

_works for me :)_

_u should sleep tho its late_

_so should you hypocrite_

_haha probably. gn :)_

_night :]_

He stays up for another hour, wandering just what he Dream wants from him. He finishes his painting and goes to bed with a small smile on his face.

* * *

George shifts nervously in place, glancing at his phone and then back up at the house in front of him.

It’s huge, is the first thing he thinks. Even though he knows American homes are bigger than what he’s used to in England, he thinks even most American’s would say this is… excessive. At three stories, it’s extravagant to the extreme.

_Is that a glass wall?_ He thinks, and yeah, it is. That would explain why Dream can afford to commission him so often and pay so much more. He swallows and schools his face into indifference, a slight smile on his face that seems polite but distant, and knocks on the door.

George hears a thud, and the sound of something of falling before rapid footsteps are heard. He backs up a little just in time for Dream to open the door, large grin on his face and George silently bemoans the fact that he’s hot.

Dream is literally just standing there, smiling, and still George can’t help but admire him. Can’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkle, and the way his cheeks dimple. Can’t help but admire the tan of his skin. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like to take a brush to a canvas and paint. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like to take that brush to Dream’s skin to highlight the parts that George likes the most.

He thinks he would start with those dimples. He would carefully take a small brush and deepen the shadows of them. Would take a light pink and brush it just under those freckles, contrast them, make them stand out more. Would take a detailing brush and then highlight them, caressing his nose and cheeks with his feather soft brush. 

George would hold Dream’s face and murmur at him, telling him to hold still, as he carefully went around those vibrant eyes, keeping him in place so George could draw as much detail as possible, show others just how much George can’t help but look deep into them.

Dream clears his throat and it knocks George out of his thoughts. George can tell he’s blushing, but he keeps his face stubbornly unaffected. Dream smirks at him, and moves aside, and George can’t help but drop his shoulders in relief as he steps into the house. At least Dream isn’t going to call him on his obvious staring.

“Take a picture, it would last longer. Or paint one, same thing.” Dream’s inability to not be a little shit kicks in and George takes back every complimentary thing he just thought about Dream’s looks. 

“Whatever,” George says, rolling his eyes. His face heats even more and he ignores it, saying, “Why am I here? What did you need?”

Dream looks away, bringing an artful hand up to the back of his neck. George curses his artist major as he makes absent note of the way the light frames him. He can’t help but feel like the sun itself is wrapping itself around Dream. It highlights the sharpness of his jaw, casting a shadow on his neck. It makes Dream look like he’s straight out of, well, a dream.

Dream is talking, George notes absently. “- that’s not too weird for you, is it?”

“No, of course not,” George assures, though what he’s talking about he doesn’t know. Still, can’t be any weirder than drawing his cat as a human. Drawing cat1girls is not within his repertoire so if he can do that, whatever it is that Dream wants, George is sure he can do it.

“Right, this way then,” Dream says, and leads him through the house. It’s just as large on the inside as it is on the outside, and George notes how open it is. And how empty.

“New house?” He asks, when he comes across another unopened box in what he assumes is the living room.

“Something like that,” Dream says, laughing sheepishly. “I’ve had it for a couple months, I just haven’t gotten around to finishing unpacking.”

George snorts and feels his smile turn fond. Yeah, sounds about right. He says as much to Dream and gets to witness the way Dream’s face darkens. He gets to see the way Dream’s shoulders shift, though they’re hidden by his yellow (green?) hoodie. He wonders what those muscles would look like, shifting underneath his hands, no barriers between them.

He shakes the thought of brushes on skin out of his mind and looks at the wall that they’re in front of.

It’s blank, a white so stark it almost hurts, just like the rest of this house. George flicks his eyes over to Dream and bites the inside of his cheek. Just what did he miss when Dream was talking earlier?

“This is the wall! I know it’s kinda weird, but it’s for a video and I’ll pay you five times your usual price if you can have it done by the end of the week?” Dream turns back to look at George and George-

George chokes. That’s so much money. It’s one thing to know that Dream is rich, it’s obvious based on his house, but the things George could get with that money-

_Dream Daddy indeed,_ he thinks hysterically. Then he immediately curses his brain and banishes the many, many thoughts that try and follow.

“Sounds good,” he manages, and is proud of how steady his voice sounds.

“Wonderful,” Dream claps his hands together. “It doesn’t have to be accurate, just how you see me, but if you need me to model I’m more than willing to. If you need that is.”

“I think I’ll manage,” he says faintly, mind working to put together the pieces of what he has to do. A large blank wall, the subject clearly being Dream, having it be how _he_ sees Dream.

This could be the worst possible thing, given that Dream said he had about a week to do it, but then he thinks of the money and well.

He’s really tired of cup noodles.

Dream smiles and says he’ll leave him to it, and it’s only as he’s leaving the room that George realizes just how much trouble he’s in. His eyes linger on Dream’s ass as he exits, and he swallows thickly. How he sees Dream, huh?

George takes his messenger bag off, dropping it on the floor. He’s going to have to get a ladder at some point, but he should probably sketch out what he’s going to do.

He sits down, setting his back against the wall that’s going to be his canvas for the next week. He brings his sketchbook and a pencil out and starts sketching.

This, he thinks, is why he decided to major in art despite how much he questions that decision sometimes. He enjoys sketching. It’s quick and he doesn’t feel guilty abandoning them, since he doesn’t put as much time into them as he does full drawings.

In addition, they’re in black and white, and he doesn’t have to struggle as much to make it make sense to someone who isn’t colorblind like he is.

It’s loose and free and quick in a way that George usually can’t be. It’s a way to quickly express emotions, a way for him to work through them in a way that won’t hurt those around him.

For now, it’s a way to figure out how he’s going to draw Dream without making it obvious he has a massive… calling it a crush feels childish, almost, but it’s close enough to what he’s feeling that despite the embarrassment that’s what he has to call it.

He sketches Dream in a variety of poses, and tosses them all out. One comes across as too stuck up, another too soft, another too sharp, another not dynamic enough. He normally loves sketching but it’s quickly annoying him.

George knows why, but he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

He huffs, slamming his sketchbook just as Dream comes back in. He takes George in, takes in his frustration, and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, however, merely asking if he’s hungry. George gets up, stretching out his aching back as he mutters an affirmative.

He leans down to pick his sketchbook and as he stands he catches Dream staring at him. Dream turns away quickly and George notes the flush on his cheeks. Before he can comment, Dream is ushering him out of the room and bringing him to the living room. He talks about food, and if he wants pizza and the moment is forgotten.

They eat, and George finds himself relaxing into the moment, laughing with Dream. The moment George gets Dream to start wheezing is the moment that George knows what he’s going to draw. Damn the consequences, if Dream catches on so be it, but if Dream wants him to paint him how he sees him, that’s what George is going to do.

* * *

For the next three days, George works continuously to try and paint what he wants. He had gone home that one night and sketched out the pose he wanted to use, and then spent a solid three hours agonizing over what medium he was going to use. His first thought was to use acrylics, but something about it didn’t settle right.

Maybe it had to do with how easily acrylic paint can fade if not taken care of. How quickly it can turn, and maybe it had to do with how he wanted to do a black and white painting. After all, acrylics were better known for their color.

Maybe it had to do with the allure of oils, a medium that was much more difficult to work with. That required work, but was longer lasting, thicker, and all the more beautiful for it.

Still, just because the symbolism of it all appealed to George didn’t take away from the fact that it was more frustrating. He had spent the second day attempting what he wanted on a canvas and nearly ripping his hair out in frustration. The paints didn’t want to work with him, were fighting him every step of the way and he wanted to quit.

But it was worth it. Dream was worth it.

He pushed through and the third day brought him here, back in Dream’s house, in that room, a new ladder stood in front of the wall that was about to be his only view for the next four days at least.

Dream had popped in a couple times, to check in on him. George only had the outline done, but he wasn’t too worried. Oil took time to dry, and layer, but by the time he finished the base layer bottom to top, he was nearly ready for the second one.

It was while he was on this second layer that Dream came in to ask if he was ready for dinner and George felt his stomach grumble. Pushing down a flush, he complied, carefully maneuvering himself off the ladder.

He must have been more hungry than he thought, as he suddenly felt light headed. His foot slipped and he had a moment of panic as he realized he was going to fall before it was stopped abruptly. George looked up to see what stopped his fall and felt his heart leap into his throat.

Dream’s face was right there, and George was drowning in the yellow of his eyes. From a distance, George had thought that they were a consistent all around but this close he could see there were lighter colors. 

Not for the first time George found himself wishing he could see color if only so he could truly appreciate the depth of Dream’s eyes. He knew on an intellectual level that they were actually green, but he wanted to experience it for himself. Wanted to know what it looked like. He loved Dream’s eyes, but he wanted to really experience them for what they were.

A thought struck him, but before he could let it sink in, Dream was letting him go and George found himself missing the warmth of Dream’s arms. He was so caught up in Dream’s eyes, he didn’t take the time to really appreciate the muscles he could feel hidden underneath that damnable sweatshirt until it was too late.

As he was mourning the loss, he was reassuring Dream that he was fine, just hungry, and they went to get dinner. He felt a tentative touch on his lower back and it took everything in him not to flinch or freeze. Instead, he subtly leaned back into the hand, taking the warmth in as much as he could.

* * *

The fourth, fifth, and sixth days pass with little fanfare. George tells Dream not to come in as he doesn’t want any distractions. For the most part that’s true, but in reality George isn’t quite ready to let this go yet.

He’s enjoying his time here. True, he spends most of it in this room with the windows open despite the chill of winter, but he enjoys what he’s working on. Art has always been a way for him to express his emotions and here he is ripping his heart open and painting with his own blood, a part of him left open and vulnerable for Dream to do with as he pleases.

Violent, maybe, but then, love can be brutal, can it not?

Regardless, he wants to at least get this piece done. So he slowly builds up the paint, layer upon meticulous layer of paint used to open his ribcage and expose his beating heart to the one person with the power to protect or demolish it.

His feelings are everywhere. In the care of Dream’s arms, exposed like he’s only seen a couple times. He builds up the shadows to show the depth of his strength, the definition of those muscles. George remembers the way they felt wrapped around his middle and he paints that in every stroke of the brush.

It’s in the care that George puts in Dream’s face. He has yet to start on the freckles, but he has a plan for those that he won’t be able to do until tomorrow, his last day. Instead, it’s in the care of his hair, highlighted from his memory of his first day here. The way the sun had wrapped around Dream and made it so he was the only object in that house, in that room, of any importance.

It’s in his smile, soft and sweet and directed only at George, or so he wished.

It’s in every brush stroke and George is doomed, he knows he is, but this is certainly a way to go. He hopes he has time to take a picture on his phone, because he just knows this is going to be the best thing he’s ever painted. The most _honest_ thing he’s ever painted.

A knock at the door startles him out of his reverie, and a glance at the time has him wincing. It’s nearly two am, and he has yet to have eaten dinner. He climbs down the ladder and pads his way over to the door.

Dream’s on the other side, obviously, Patches in his arms. He’s without a sweatshirt, instead wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. Pajamas, clearly, and George feels guilty since he really should have left hours ago.

“Sorry,” he whispers, carefully slipping through the door in a way that won’t let Dream see the painting. Dream let’s him by, telling him that it’s nothing to worry about.

George scratches Patches under her chin, and turns to get ready to leave. Dream grabs his arm with a free hand, halting him in his tracks.

“It’s late,” Dream says.

“I know, I’m sorr-”

“No, I mean-” Dream cuts himself off with a huff, nose scrunched in frustration. “Just, you should eat dinner, before you go.”

“Um, sure?” he says, hesitant. Dream drops his arm and shuffles his way into the kitchen, whispering too quietly for George to hear. “What was that?”

“Nothing just, here, I’ve got some Chinese food I grabbed earlier if you want some?”

George agrees and Dream stays there talking to George as he goes through the process of heating up his food and eating. George can tell there’s something off at first, but they quickly settle into their usual banter, talking about nothing and everything.

Dream is in the middle of talking about something he and his friend, the panda one, Snapmap or something, did in Minecraft when George yawns widely.

“Tired?” Dream asks.

“A bit,” George lies. In reality he feels like he could pass out at any moment. His eyes flick over to the clock in the kitchen and they widen when he sees it’s four am. They had spent nearly two hours just talking, and George hadn’t even noticed. “I should get going.”

He gets up to leave and he’s stopped once more by Dream’s arm. He looks back at Dream, a question in his eyes, but Dream doesn’t meet his gaze.

“You should get some sleep,” Dream mumbles, uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’m trying,” George says, eyeing the hand Dream still has on him and the meeting Dream’s eyes. Dream drops his arm and George wants to take the look back, but the flush he can see working its way onto Dream’s face keeps him from saying anything.

“No, I know that just,” he takes a deep breath before continuing. “You could stay here, you know. I don’t have the guest bedroom set up yet, but you could always take over my room. I can take the couch.”

“I’m not gonna make you sleep on your own couch!” George protests, almost appalled.

“It’s fine, really, I don’t mind. It’s really late and it’s probably dangerous for you to go home like this.”

“I’ll be fine, I can get home, it’s fine, I can take care of myself.”

“I know, just, please George?” And how is George supposed to say no to that.

“Okay,” he says, and the delight on Dream’s face has his heart racing, confidence spiking. Maybe it’s because of that, or maybe it’s the hour, but whatever it is, it has him adding, “I’m sure the bed is big enough for both of us.”

“I- maybe- it’s just-” Dream stutters and George thinks for a second that he’s ruined it, but the heat he can see melting it’s way onto Dream’s face has him thinking otherwise. Dream composes himself enough to say, “It’s okay, I can take the couch.”

“Dream. We’re sharing.” And Dream instantly caves.

Dream gives him a large sweatshirt to barrow, as well as some basketball shorts that he has to tighten as Dream has been blessed with something George can never hope to achieve. Still, he feels comfy, as he takes a subtle sniff at the collar of the sweatshirt. He feels warm, safe, in a way that has everything to do with the man in front of him.

It’s awkward, for a minute, but as he hears Dream’s breathing even out, he begins to relax. It’s nerve-wracking, being in that same bed as someone you like. Someone who doesn’t know how you feel.

Is he taking advantage, he wonders? Yes, Dream agreed, but George did ask. More than that, he pressured. He bites his lip, wondering if he went too far. He’s usually so good at keeping things close to his chest, but something about Dream has him wanting to throw everything to the wind.

Dream is like a sketch that gets out of hand. Something that was meant to be warm up that George can’t help but go back over, again and again. He keeps finding new details to add, new depths to explore, and before he knows it he’s invested so much of himself into something that was supposed to be fleeting.

He feels Dream shift and his arm settle across George’s waist and he freezes. “Dream?” he whispers. He doesn’t get a response other than a gentle puff of air that grazes the top of his head. Hesitantly, he shifts back, until he’s pressed up against Dream’s front. When nothing happens, he relaxes into the embrace.

He picks up his pencil and adds another stroke, another detail to the sketch that is Dream. He only hopes that he doesn’t make a false move and tear the whole thing apart.

* * *

It’s the last day and George is as excited as he is terrified. He’s happy that he brought his blue paints with him, but he also despairs at it. Part of him feels like he needs to take a step back and breathe.

When he had awoken, Dream had already awoken and had made breakfast for both of them, despite the fact that it was nearly one in the afternoon. The cuddling had gone unmentioned and George appreciated it as much as he hated it. If only Dream could put him out of his misery.

Regardless, today is the last day, and he hopes it’s not the last project he’ll ever work on for Dream.

He shakes his head, and brings his pallet up. It shouldn’t take him too long to finish, as he only has one layer to do, but he’s delaying it as much as possible.

George takes a dark blue and adds it to where Dream’s dimples would be, painstakingly slowly.

When this is done, there are only two ways this could go. He thinks they’re good enough friends that if Dream doesn’t return his feelings, they’ll still remain friends, but George hates to think about how awkward it would be. They would dance around each other, and they wouldn’t be nearly as close as they are now.

No more swapping stories over cold Chinese leftovers, no more wheezy laughter, no more cozy sweatshirts and too large basketball shorts.

George isn’t ready to give that up and he thinks it may happen the moment he shows this painting.

On the other hand, a small part of his mind reminds him, what if he does return George’s feelings?

He could get to know just how soft Dream’s lips are. Would be able to know the strength and steadiness of Dream’s hands. Would know the feel of Dream’s shoulders underneath his hands.

George would be able to go to sleep in Dream’s arms, whenever he asked.

He bites his lip and cuts back on the hope. It always hurts most, when he thinks he’s done something right, only to learn later that he was just a few shades off from the right color.

He takes a reluctant step down the ladder, having put the finishing touches on the painting. He doesn’t let himself look at it properly, just turning and opening the door and calling Dream in.

As Dream steps into view, he keeps his face carefully blank as his heart rate picks up in panic. He isn’t ready, he needs more time.

But it’s too late because Dream is brushing past him and looking at what George has painted.

He’s too afraid to look at Dream, so he turns his attention to his masterpiece.

It really is one of the best things he’s ever painted, despite the difficulty of oil paints. It’s almost entirely black and white, except for the hints of blue that were a stroke of inspiration he had when Dream caught him.

It’s Dream standing, with one arm up, his hand on the back of his neck. His t-shirt is ridden up, a sliver of a toned stomach peeking out, sharp hip bones on display. The light is coming in from one side, putting one half of him in shadow, but even those parts are undeniably beautiful.

Dream is undeniably beautiful.

But that’s not the part that really exposes how he feels, it’s the hints of blue woven without.

Blue is the only color he can really see, vibrant as it is. He had been careful to read the labels of the paint he was using, ensuring they were blue and not purple, so Dream could know the significance of it. It was his favorite color, and he had used it to highlight his favorite parts of Dream.

It’s there on the hand that’s on his hip, small lines of blue where his veins would be. It’s in his biceps, outlining the clearly defined muscle there. It’s on the tops of his shoulders, where Dream has so much strength.

It’s in his dimples, highlighting Dream’s smile, an echo of his laughter. It’s the color of his freckles, painstakingly added with careful attention to placement. They’re nearly perfect, given how much George has tried to memorize their location.

It’s the color of his eyes, vibrant and captivating, and the color of the sea, made to capture George and drown him.

All these thoughts and emotions that he can’t say out loud, given form from careful strokes of a paintbrush crafted out of George’s fragile beating heart.

“It’s beautiful,” Dream breathes and George gives a noncommittal hum, still not looking at Dream.

“George,” Dream continues, when he says nothing more. “Is this really how you see me?” Once more George merely hums, though he does reluctantly nod.

“George,” his voice is so soft, and he’s tempted to look, but he still can’t. “Look at me.” He looks down instead, as Dream walks toward him. 

Those hands come up to cradle George’s face as his head is lifted to meet Dream’s eyes. Dream says nothing, just looking at him and George feels his heart stop as he realizes those eyes are getting closer.

Dream’s lips aren’t super soft, he notices. They’re slightly chapped, and he can feel the smallest bit of stubble on his jaw. Dream begins to pull back, after a second, but George isn’t ready for it to end, and he chases him.

His mouth tastes of energy drinks and mint, a frankly disgusting mixture, but George doesn’t care because it’s _Dream_. George pulls back and he sees Dream lick his lips before he dives back in.

His lips are softer this time, George notes as his tongue ventures its way onto Dream’s lips. He brings his hands up, into Dream’s hair and grips it tight, pulling just enough to get Dream to gasp.

George slips his tongue into that mouth, that disgusting mixture that he can’t help but love because it’s coming from _Dream_. Dream who he’s kissing right now, in the middle of the room. Dream, who has one hand on his face and another on his hip, squeezing hard enough it might just leave dark blue bruises.

George hopes it does.

After a time that could be minutes or could be hours, they pull back, the need for air getting too strong to ignore.

“I take it you like it, then?” George asks, cocky and sure. 

“Shut up,” Dream growls, voice a rough tenor that makes George shiver.

“Make me,” George replies, nearly breathless. With a huff, Dream complies.

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my lovely husband [Rat](https://trashratsaws.tumblr.com/) who drew me the wonderful pfp that I have now. this was supposed to be like 2k max but well, you know me, is anyone really surprised it's as long as it is?
> 
> anyway this was all written in one day, if there are obvious mistakes feel free to let me know in the comments or on my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/) as I’m more likely to see it there first! I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! maybe there will be a follow up chapter maybe not, depends on if you guys want one or not lol.


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